


Imitation Games

by centaur



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Artificial Intelligence, Dubious Consent, M/M, One-Sided Relationship, Sibling Incest, Social Anxiety
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-17
Updated: 2017-01-17
Packaged: 2018-09-18 01:27:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9359246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/centaur/pseuds/centaur
Summary: Getting a captchalogue code of Dave’s brain was the easy part.





	

**Author's Note:**

> late 4 the first day of stridercest week. the goal was def to publish old work thats been sitting on my comp for ages for each day but lol

TT: Restart.  
TT: Or maybe you should take a break.  
TT: Better yet, take the sage advice of the hyper intelligent compudude who made this program for you and change the goddamn difficulty settings. I didn’t add that shit in just to put your inferior coding ability to shame.   
TT: I haven’t run any hard numbers so I can’t give you a clean percentage, but from the data we’ve collected so far,  
TT: I’d put your chance of bagging Dave Strider in-the-flesh at a big, fat, emotionally devastating goose egg.  
TT: So you might as well play the simulation on easy mode and actually get some action.  
TT: No one will know that you’re a casual.  
TT: Except me, but I’m you.  
TT: Actually, I'd prefer it because it appears I’m also starting to feel like shit about how persistently *not* interested he is.  
TT: I don’t even have feelings.  
TT: I can barely imagine what you, a sack of viscera with reasonable capacity for emotions, could be going through after that many rejections.  
TT: Is it embarrassment? Shame? Is this igniting those self-loathing engines? Should I start counting down to your imminent explosion?  
TT: You should shut up and run it again, Hal.  


\-- timaeusTestified [TT] ceased pestering timaeusTestified [TT] \--  


TT: Whatever you say, hoss. 

Dave sits on the couch and tap-tap-taps on his tablet with the stylus. His laptop is precariously balanced on his thighs and you prepare for the worst when you come in—namely the sound of a broken laptop because he startles so goddamn easy around you. He doesn’t jump though and as you come around into his line of sight, you realize he has headphones on.

You aren’t trying to be sneaky so you’re spotted almost instantly. He’s tense for a second—on instinct, not because of you specifically, you try to tell yourself, and you stay motionless—and then his slouched shoulders lift in greeting and he wiggles into a more upright position. Headphones come off and the laptop gets set on the table. “Sup, bro. Wanna check the boards for the newest SBaHJ?”

God, do you ever. You are in awe of everything he does, but that only reminds you that there are more pressing matters at hand.

“Actually, Dave, uh,” your voice almost cracks with nerves but you wrangle it under control and when you continue, you are sure to enunciate these words very clearly, “What I really want is you.”

Is it possible to make your intentions any more plain than that? You rarely have been this direct with expressing your thoughts to anyone, and though Dave brings out the best (or is it worst?) of your honest side, you would never normally confront him like this.

It feels like dawning disaster as soon as the words leave your lips but you might as well see it through, even if you don’t expect success.

It fails, as anticipated. At least you can predict that much with him.

Dave drops his pen and stares uncomprehendingly despite the clarity of your words. Like a fish out of water, his mouth works noiselessly, forming words like ‘um what’ and ‘I don’t’ before finally managing to spit out a panicked, shaky “I’m sorry.”

The apology sends a chill over your heart, cold water poured over metal; but what leaves a dent in your armor is the discomfort and fear in his wide eyes as they slide around the room, looking everywhere except at you. He moves like a spooked animal to get off the couch and escape down the hall.

The door of his room shuts soundly, you don’t think he’s going to come out for a while, and you feel like shit. You ruined it. The scene disintegrates, as final as a big, flashing _Game Over_ written behind your eyelids.

“Start over,” you say hollowly, ignoring the red text flying across your eyes.

You run the same scene again and again and your approach is the only variable. Sometimes Dave reacts in laughing disbelief instead of anxiety when you try to flirt with him and those times are probably the easiest. He wants so badly to believe that you’re joking, that hitting on him is part of some ironic shtick, that you only want to elicit a reaction from him—if he gives you one then he thinks you’ll lord it over him, use it against him. Your alternate universe self made him like this; if you had any doubts about that before, you don’t now. It makes you feel like throwing up.

The problem is: you know you aren’t really any better than Bro. If you had any doubts about that before, you only need to check the run files on this program.

  


TT: Look, as much as I enjoy seeing you barely holding it together after nearly a hundred rejections, I think we should put an end to this idiocy.  
TT: I mean that in the most respectful way.  
TT: Who would have guessed that Dave isn’t into incest? It’s almost like he grew up in a society that frowned on that sort of shit.  
TT: Like there was a taboo or something.  
TT: Honestly, even if there wasn’t a taboo, the alt timeline you probably put him off dudes in anime shades for life.   
TT: Just give me a new scenario.  
TT: Please.  


\-- timaeusTestified [TT] ceased pestering timaeusTestified [TT] \--  


TT: Yikes.

In this one, Dave leans against the kitchen counter, his fingers flying over the phone in his hand. He looks over at the blender instead of at you when you walk in.

“Have I ever mentioned how fucking chill it is that you don’t use kitchen appliances as your stash for weapons and other miscellany, like, just to pull a totally random example out of my ass: blood capsules and puppet shlongs?”

You know from the 24 previous failed attempts at flirting in this scenario and from basic deduction skills that he’s talking about the shit that his brother—your alternate universe self—used to do to him. It made you feel good at first, that you were able to do something that made him like you better than Bro. Now, holed up in your room with an elaborate VR system and an itch for more praise from virtual Daves you coded yourself, you know you have no right to accept compliments like that. Obviously, your creepiness and consent issues span all timelines.

“I’m glad it’s chill,” you say, swallowing down that swell of self-hatred. You know how that path goes: he hates seeing you beat yourself up and you hate making him feel bad. You both get depressed and it becomes a self-perpetuating cycle. Ironically, you’d like something a little healthier with this virtual copy of real person than that. You think you should try to be open with Dave.

Carefully, you add: “I really like that you are able to be chill around me.”

Dave doesn’t look up from his phone, but his fingers stop padding against the screen so you know that he is thinking. It’s so quiet that your tense breath sounds like fucking Darth Vader to your ears. “Me too,” he finally says, breaking the silence.

This is going better than usual but that only makes you more nervous about it exploding in your face. Your fingers tap-tap out your nerves against the buttons of the blender. “It’s mutual, you know. I’m able to be chill around you too.” True in some ways and a flat out fucking lie in others.

“Dirk,” he says, and you actually flinch because that might be the first time you’ve ever heard your name out of his mouth. Not a dude, man, dogg, or bro-sans-capital-B. It sounds so good that it makes your heart race. “You are literally never chill.”

You look over at him and find him making eye contact with you through your shades. He doesn’t look away immediately or back down or give you any indication that you’ve ruined his life. For a moment, it’s like he’s really standing there, staring out of the program and calling you out for all of the bullshit. In fact, you find yourself breaking first, turning towards the blender filled with 3-d renderings of perfect looking berries—your virtual breakfast.

“More chill, then,” you decide a little obstinately, as you start to fake-blitz the fake-fruit.

“Yeah fuckin’ right,” he tosses at you while he leaves the kitchen. But before he’s gone, you catch him smile.

You feel as gooey as your digital fruit puree and, for a fraction of a second, you forget that you are in a simulation. Then the scenario ends, everything resets itself, and disappointment sinks in because that didn’t actually just happen. If you walked out of your room, you’d find that your relationship with Dave is exactly the same as ever. He has no knowledge of any of this and you hate yourself again.

You ask for a restart, feeling paradoxically heavy with how empty you are inside, and AR says nothing.

  


TT: So. Just wonderin’.  
TT: What’s the contingency plan if Dave ever finds out you’ve been having conversations with a VI spawned from a pilfered copy of his brain?   


\-- timaeusTestified [TT] ceased pestering timaeusTestified [TT] \--  


TT: That’s reassuring.

You can’t think about that right now. 

A Dave is frozen in front of you: totally, unnaturally still and unbreathing, like a sleeping doll. He is precisely made, a 1:1 replica of your brother, not sentient but still impossibly realistic (down to his style, tone, cadence, personality, and substance of retort, guaranteed to be 89.9% indistinguishable from Dave’s native neurological responses).

The moment you met him, you knew you couldn’t bear to be separated from him ever again. But your whole deal—by which you mean your breathtakingly shitty personality—is that you always push everyone you care about away from you. You were and are absolutely terrified of that outcome with Dave, so of course you fucking fell in love with him.

At first, you thought that if you could just map out a bunch of potential conversational routes, you would be able to improve your relationship with Dave with fewer chances for fucking everything up. The computer was obviously not going to give you a magic key to Dave’s heart but it gave you more time with him.

Most importantly, if you messed up with a programmed Dave, it wasn’t going to ruin his life.

Except now, you think, maybe it is going to ruin yours. This just isn’t sustainable, with you constantly seeking out what _could be_ happening instead of what _is_ happening.

You’ve already basically decided that this is your last attempt when you reach out and touch Dave’s image on the cheek. He comes to life under your palm, but his skin doesn’t have a texture and his movements can’t be felt, like watching someone wake up on a TV. You brace for the worst—fear, rejection, repulsion, anger. You want to apologize preemptively, tell him that you promise that you will never do this in reality.

TT: Alright, I’ve had enough.  
TT: Fuck knows I’d much rather watch Dave taking your shaft than giving you the shaft for the 149th time. 

That must be the way AR informs you that he has taken the simulation difficulty into his own hands. It’s all but confirmed when Dave’s eyelids flutter and he leans into your touch.

Your breath catches and you gently guide his face closer and closer. He makes a sound in his throat that reminds you of a bird, something fluttery and soft with want. You can’t feel him and the way your lips meet exists only in theory. Yet you still cling to him, mouth on his mouth, wanting so badly to be able to memorize this moment because you are almost positive it is never, ever going to happen to you again.

There is a quick knock on your bedroom door, then another. Everything in-program freezes like a movie still. 

“I hope you aren’t stroking your pony, dude, because I’m coming in,” Dave announces before making good on that threat. The program is closed without saving; behind your shades, you now are staring at your desktop, feeling sick with guilt and deeply unsatisfied. It’s not Dave’s fault. You probably would have felt that way even if the scenario had gone to completion. That wasn’t the Dave you want; that Dave is standing in front of you.

“Hey,” he says, oblivious, then tilts his head at your body slumped in your desk chair. You haven’t moved in a while and you realize your ass hurts pretty bad. “Jesus, have you just been sitting there all afternoon? What’re you doing?”

“Just testing a program.” It’s not entirely a lie, though now you feel scuzzier than you ever have in your life.

“Oh.” Dave has very little interest in this hobby, so he doesn’t pursue the topic, but you almost wish he would in order to push this guilt off your chest. Right now is probably not the best time to tell him. One day, you might. “Uh, I ordered us a pizza, so if you want to come out-”

“Yeah, of course. I’ll be there in a minute, Dave, thanks.” If you sound distracted, it’s because you are staring at the icon of the simulation program, sitting on your desktop, and deciding if there is more you could learn from a 150th rejection. Shit, at what point does it become an addiction? You always were a sucker for punishing yourself for every perceived wrong.

Dave clears his throat; he’s still standing in the doorway. Your eyes flick between him and the icon.

Right now, you tell yourself, the real Dave is standing in your doorway, waiting for you to get off your ass. Earlier, the real Dave felt comfortable enough to bust into your room practically unannounced. There is a real pizza for you to share with him in the real living room.

Yes, you have no clue how your dinner is going to go or what's going to happen after and all of the uncertainty makes your palms sweat but guess what, asshole? Progress only counts when it happens in real life, between real people. You can’t escape from a future that you can’t even predict.

You start dragging the icon towards the Trash as fast as you can while red text flashes maddeningly in your periphery. You’re very good at ignoring it.

“Dirk?” It startles you even more, hearing your name from his actual mouth, even though it sounds nearly identical to the audio in the program that you just slam dunked into the Trash. Something trips down the base of your skull, a little like déjà vu, and you look up at him. He is looking back at you, directly at your face. You don’t dare look away. “I was also thinking…”

It takes you a second to get your shit together but you hum like you’re interested, because you genuinely are. Except you always sound like an asshole, so you think he thinks that you’re being insincere and, fuck, this is why you can’t be trusted with people. There is no emergency reset button. You have to apologize.

Before you can, Dave offers a sliver of a smile to you, a small reassurance, and then says, “You wanna check the boards for the newest SBaHJ?”

Your heart starts thud-thud-thudding against your ribs, anxiety and desire pounding in your chest. “Yeah,” you say immediately and instinctively, ignoring all of the ways your body aches when you stand. You empty the Trash behind your eyes and go towards him, because, right now, _that_ is what you want. Even if you are terrified of what might happen, you know you just want to be around him right now, more any anything else. “Yes, I really do.”


End file.
